


6-4-2

by skatzaa



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Original Work
Genre: Ficlet Collection, writing prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:17:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: From "642 Things To Write About." My girlfriend chooses the prompts and I do my best to fill them.





	6-4-2

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not super happy with all of these, but I'm going to post them anyway without any alterations (other than for spelling errors and such) (turns out this was a bit of a lie; I might add some stuff to the ends of ones that I ran out of room for in the book). I'll try to keep the number of fandom tags down because nobody wants to be that person.
> 
> No idea when/if I'll add more, but I'll keep this open anyway.

**A useless love—a connection or affinity that doesn't fit into the plans of anyone concerned.**

 

NO, said Death. He said it very authoritatively, in the tone of voice that would scare most law-abiding citizens—and a fair number of those who didn't consider themselves law-abiding in the slightest—to, well, death.

The little creature continued to gnaw its way determinedly through the leather of Death's favorite shoe.* It would take quite a lot of determined chewing on the creature's part to leave any sort of mark on the boot, but that didn't seem to faze it.

Death propped his bunched metacarpal bones on his hips. It was a very intimidating pose, to more everyone larger than this creature.

BAD... TINY PIG, Death said, but it lacked the same zeal from before. Despite himself, he was starting to like the thing. At least, until it peed on his rug. He still couldn't quite bring himself to kill it, though, no matter what the tiny hourglass in his hand said.

He picked it up and put it in his pocket, where it began to chew at the fabric of his robe. At least, Death thought to himself, he would be better able to feel the breeze this way. It was, perhaps, the only upside to the whole thing.

 

*Not the pair, but the singular boot. Death had notions of footwear that would baffle the average onlooker.

 

* * *

 

 

**You realize you have inadvertently become a stalker.**

 

It's as you're filling in the last line of required information for an Instagram account that you mentally take a step back. Maybe this is a little too much, just to impress some girl?

"Nah," your friend says, when you voice your concern. "It's when you start seeing her all the time in random places on purpose—that's a sign that you're becoming a stalker."

You decide not to mention all those times you've seen her in the city, then. And, while you're at it, you resolve to keep to yourself how many times you've visited where she works when you're fairly certain she'll be there. Something tells you that may fall into 'stalking 101' as well.

 

* * *

 

 

**Making soup**

 

He stared at the pot, which was bubbling quite rabidly on the stove.

"And... you're sure it's supposed to look like that?" he said into the phone, edging away slowly. Something told him it was too late to simply turn the burner off.

"You said it turned golden brown, right?" his girlfriend asked, sounding exasperated with him.

"Well, yes," he said, edging faster now. "It's only that it's also growing arms and reaching—MPH!"

 

(This one, it was decided, ended with our hero valiantly beating the soup-creature off with his wooden spoon. The creature then slunk back under the cover on the pot, to recover from its wounds and plan as it bided its time, waiting for the next opportunity to attack.)

 

* * *

 

 

**A bad smell and where it came from**

 

They stopped to sniff the air. Something smelled awful. Of course, this was Ankh-Morpork, so something nearly always smelled awful. But this was different. This was  _worse._

They turned their head and found themself staring.

It was... It was...

A man?

He saw them looking and winked.

"Like it?" the man said. He waved the sheet of paper in his hand a little harder, which made the smell even worse. "Special stamp release, scented to mimic our very own Ankh-Morpork! We created it using recycled garbage—"

But he found himself talking to air, as they walked away very quickly in any other direction.

"Oh, bugger," he said to himself. "They never get passed the recycling bit." He saw another passerby slowing to a bewildered stop and cheered up considerably. "Like it? Special—"

 

* * *

 

 

**The nape of her husband's neck**

 

She always liked her husband's neck—it was long, and the hairs there were soft as down to the touch. She enjoyed laying behind him at night and stroking her fingers up and down the smooth skin there, lulling him to sleep.

She found, as she replaced the ax in the woodshed, that she liked her husband's neck even more, now that it wasn't attached to his head.

Funny how those things worked sometimes.

She paused, and raised her hand in front of her face. The polish on her nails hadn't been set; she'd have to do it again to get rid of the blood.

Oh well.

 

* * *

 

 

**You wake up in an open field wearing an astronaut suit and lying on a surfboard. What happened?**

 

"Look, for the last time, aliens didn't kidnap you!" he snapped, glaring at her in the rearview mirror.

"Oh yeah?" she challenged. "Then how do you explain all of  _this_?"

She gestured, or at least tried to. What ended up happening was that she misjudged the weight of the suit arm, again, and ended up smacking herself in the face. Again.

"I don't  _know,"_ he sighed, aggravated. He aggressively hit his turn signal, which was quite impressive. She didn't know many people who could do something as simple as turn on a blinker so aggressively. " _Maybe_ it's because it was your stupid idea to launch yourself, completely drunk I might add, into space using nothing but the town sand pile and a surfboard!"

Oh. Yes, she though, that just might explain it.

 

* * *

 

 

**Write a survival guide for a character: Ten things** **to do in an emergency.**

 

The Ten Step Emergency Guide, by Foecrusher:

  1. Don't Panic. Losing your cool only makes it worse!
  2. Reassess. Make sure you aren't interpreting the situation wrong or overreacting.
  3. Breathe Deeply. A warrior's best friend is a steady set of lungs.
  4. Size Up Your Foe. How many combatants? What are their weapons of choice?
  5. Determine Location. Knowing your battlefield can make all the difference!
  6. Strategize. Gather your trusted allies and draw up a plan of attack.
  7. Arm Yourself. The right weapon can be the difference between life and death.
  8. Play Dirty. Do whatever it takes to win (bribery and sabotage included).
  9. Be confident. A weak opponent can be scared early on by the right body language.
  10. Dominate. Assertiveness is your friend ladies!



With these simple tools, any mom can become a PTA Champion! Go out there and be the change you want to see in the school district!   
       ❤️ Foecrusher

 

_(Linda "Foecrusher" Milner is the author of international bestseller_ PTA Warrior: How to bake, elbow, and claw your way to the top _. She also starred on the show "PTA Moms" and was voted most ruthless six seasons in a row. You can learn more about her at_ lindafoecrusher.com)

 

* * *

 

 

**What won't you touch with a 10-foot pole? Why?**

 

She poked her head out from behind the closet door. She'd been cowering at the base of the footboard, but even that had been too close to...  _it._

"Seriously," he asked, tone so flat that you could balance a very full bowl of soup on it, still propped up on the bed. Entirely unclothed.

"Eep!" she squeaked, diving behind the door. "Cover that up!"

_"Jesus,"_ he said, and, from the sounds of the rustling, stood, gathered his clothes, and left.

She sighed in relief. Thank god he was gone. She'd thought herself open-minded and tolerant, but it turned out her mother was right all along. She  _couldn't_ hand outie belly buttons after all.


End file.
